so much time arranging. The fragrant air filled her nostrils with sweet nectar as the bees darted about, buzzing away. Her garden had been her sanctuary and this horrible, horrible man had ruined it.
“June,” she heard him call, but she didn’t stop. Unwilling to let Charley Montgomery see her cry, June ducked into the house and locked the door behind her.
Five
Chloe stood in the hallway, staring at the nameplate on the door. Dr. Geoff Gable, IV stared back in cool, nondescript prose. She could not believe the renowned psychologist was willing to take the time to meet with her.
Earlier that year, Dr. Gable had made a speech at a fundraising event for her school. The man had such a commanding presence that Chloe listened, riveted, as he discussed the complex relationship between the field of psychology and art therapy. It was pretty impressive. (She couldn’t help but notice that his green eyes were pretty impressive, too.)
“Ultimately,” Dr. Gable lectured, “you should find a mentor in your field. Someone to coach you.” For a brief, breath-catching moment, his green eyes seemed to look right at her. “Email me. I’m happy to advise you in any way I can.”
It took all summer, but Chloe finally worked up the nerve to get in touch. She requested a letter of recommendation for a grant she was interested in applying to, pressed Send and expected to never hear from him again. To her surprise, Dr. Gable responded with a time and date to meet. Chloe read the email seven times, certain that he’d made a mistake.
Now that the big day had finally come, Chloe was giddy with excitement. Brushing her fingers over the nameplate for luck, she took a deep breath and opened the door. Inside the office, she stopped.
On her ride up in the elevator, Chloe had imagined that the waiting room would be bright and bustling, with a tight-lipped secretary who would ask her to take a seat. Then, after Chloe had waited a decent amount of time, flipping through worn copies of AAA and Better Homes and Gardens, the secretary would nod. “The doctor will see you now.” But to Chloe’s surprise, the white chairs lining the walls were vacant, the lights were turned down low and the tight-lipped secretary was nowhere to be found. If it weren’t for a light shining behind the frosted-glass partition by the desk, Chloe would wonder if anyone was in the office at all.
“Hello?” she called. “Dr. Gable?”
No answer.
Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Noon. Being on time was definitely overrated.
Taking a few tentative steps, Chloe peeked behind the glass partition. A long hallway led to an open door. Smoothing her hair, she headed for his office. Her sandals seemed to sink into the thick rug and the strands of carpet brushed against her toes. She’d only made it halfway, when the strains of Louis Armstrong’s “I Ain’t Got Nobody” blasted out from his office.
Crap. Dr. Gable must have forgotten about their appointment altogether. Feeling a flash of disappointment, she decided to leave. She’d send another email asking to reschedule, even though it totally sucked that he’d forgotten all about her.
Just as she made it back to the glass partition, Dr. Gable started singing along with the music. Chloe stopped in surprise. Geez, he had a terrible voice. It was surprising, really, especially considering he was so good-looking. But it was like the worst karaoke ever.
As he hit a particularly high note, Chloe had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Unfortunately, Dr. Gable chose that exact moment to barrel out into the hallway. He was bare-chested, dripping with sweat and wearing only a pair of green sweatpants.
Dr. Gable froze, the high note dying on his lips. After a long, horrifying moment, he said, “Can I help you with something?” as though trying to figure out who she was and why, exactly, she was spying on him.
Chloe’s hand dropped from her mouth. “Uh . . . hi,” she stammered. “I . . . I had an appointment with you. At noon?”
With one swift look, Dr. Gable seemed to take in everything, from her thin-framed, tortoiseshell glasses to her industrial navy wrap dress. “I never make appointments with pharmaceutical reps. I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“No, no. I—” Chloe made the mistake of looking at his tanned, heaving chest. Her eyes dipped even lower, falling on a trail of black hair that led from his defined abs to the very top